Chapter 1: The Baboon King of Kurai Kana
The air in the jungle was thick and heavy, tasting of damp earth and the iron tang of blood. Beneath a canopy of gnarled, ancient trees that choked out the sky, the only light was a gloomy, greenish haze. This was the heart of the island, a place of ruined stone walls and shattered pillars being slowly devoured by vines and moss. In the distance, silhouetted against the bruised twilight sky, stood a single, untouched castle—a silent, stoic monument amidst the decay.
In a small clearing, the clash of steel echoed.
A young man named Roy, his body slick with sweat and crisscrossed with fresh bruises, stood his ground. In his hands, he wielded a massive sword, its blade nicked and scarred from countless such encounters. Circling him was a troop of baboons, but these were no ordinary beasts. Their eyes held a fierce, calculating intelligence, and in their grip were an assortment of weapons—swords, axes, and spears—wielded with unnerving skill. They were mimics, perfect mirrors of any combat style they witnessed.
Thwack!
The flat of an axe-blade, wielded by a hulking baboon, caught Roy in the ribs, sending him stumbling back. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained grunt, but his grip on his sword never faltered. He dug his heels into the soft earth, pushing through the fire in his side, and surged forward again. His own blade met the baboon's in a shower of sparks, the force of the impact vibrating up his arms.
This was his daily ritual. His education.
For an hour, the brutal dance continued. Finally, as the last of his strength began to wane, the final baboon opposing him staggered back, its weapon dropping to the ground as it panted from exhaustion. All around Roy, more than thirty other baboons lay in similar states, not wounded, but simply drained. They had fought until their bodies could give no more.
"Woohoo!"
A guttural call cut through the heavy air. An old baboon, his fur grizzled and gray, stepped into the clearing. His posture was one of authority, and in his wise, dark eyes was a look of clear inquiry.
Roy offered a tired, but genuine, smile. He understood the call, the language of grunts and gestures he'd learned over a lifetime. "I'm fine… just tired," he managed, raising a heavy arm to wave the old one off. "Just need… a rest."
The old baboon gave a slow, deliberate nod before turning and disappearing back into the shadows of the jungle.
Roy let his legs give way, collapsing onto his back in the cool, damp moss. He stared up at the sliver of sky visible through the canopy, where a pale, full moon was already beginning to dominate the heavens. He didn't understand it; the sun seemed a fleeting visitor on this island, always yielding its place to the moon, which hung over the jungle like a watchful, silent guardian.
Fifteen years. The thought echoed in his weary mind. Fifteen years, and what do I know of the world?
He knew he was on an island. He knew the central castle was his home. He knew the baboons were his family, his teachers, and his rivals. They had found him, a helpless child, and had raised him as one of their own. They had taught him to hunt, to survive, and most importantly, to fight. He had graduated from being playfully bullied by the infants to clashing blades with the full-grown adults, his swordsmanship forged in the relentless, daily crucible of combat.
"It all feels so familiar," Roy muttered to the moon, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him as it often did. Shaking his head, he pushed himself up, the weight of his massive sword a comforting presence as he slung it onto his back. He began the slow trudge towards the only shelter he had ever known: the castle.
"A wash first," he planned aloud, his voice a low rumble. "Then, dinner with the troop."
He dragged his exhausted body through the grand, crumbling archway of the castle. It was a place the baboons respected but never entered; an unspoken boundary they never crossed. The ruins that littered the rest of the island spoke of a forgotten civilization, but this castle stood pristine, a mystery Roy had never solved. Over the years, he had scavenged the surrounding ruins, amassing a small fortune in gold and jewels that now lay piled high in the castle's basement—a king's ransom that meant nothing without a ship to spend it on.
After cleaning up, he made his way to the baboons' dwelling. Deep in the jungle, a great bonfire roared, casting dancing shadows on the surrounding trees. A troop of baboons moved around the flames in a rhythmic, primal dance. From a distance, it could have been a tribe of primitive humans holding a festival.
These were no ordinary animals. They were brilliant mimics and survivors, capable of using tools, cooking food, and wielding weapons with terrifying proficiency. The strongest among them could even channel their spirit into the blade, unleashing slashes of air that could slice through trees—a skill Roy had spent years trying to master.
Roy settled into his usual spot, picking up a haunch of roasted meat and tearing into it with his teeth. The familiar taste sent his mind drifting back. Fifteen years ago, he had been someone else—an ordinary man whose world consisted of computer screens and animated stories. He remembered a sudden accident, the certainty of death… and then, waking up here. A child again, in a terrifying, unknown world. The baboons had taken him in, and the years had blurred into a cycle of survival and training.
"If you're going to send someone to a new world, could you not at least include a system? A guide? Anything?" he murmured to the uncaring fire. "Nothing. If the baboons hadn't taught me their swordsmanship, I'd have been dead within a week. I might just be the most poorly-equipped transmigrator in history."
The isolation was the hardest part. Every day, without fail, he would walk to the beach and stare out at the impenetrable wall of fog that surrounded the island. Visibility was less than fifty meters. Even if a ship passed by, it would never see the land, and the land would never see the ship.
"Uuuu! Ook ook!"
The old baboon approached again. He was the troop's strategist and drillmaster. While the strongest baboon was the king, this elder was the general, managing their society and overseeing the training of the young. His call now was a prompt for Roy's nightly, advanced drills.
Roy wolfed down the last of his meal and followed the elder into a darker part of the jungle. Immediately, ten large adult baboons emerged from the shadows. This was no simple brawl; they were armed and even wore crude, forged pieces of armor.
"Woohoo!"
With a chorus of battle cries, they converged on him from all directions. Roy closed his eyes. He had lived and breathed this for so long that he no longer needed sight or sound. He could feel their intent, predict the arc of their attacks before their muscles even tensed. It was a form of precognition, honed through ten thousand life-or-death spars.
The night became a whirlwind of parries, dodges, and thunderous impacts. By the time he had weathered three waves of attackers, his body was screaming in protest, his lungs burning like fire. With a final, respectful nod to his simian instructors, he shouldered his great sword and staggered back towards the castle, yearning for the solace of its silent halls.
But as he crossed the grand threshold, every nerve in his body screamed a warning.
The air was wrong. It was still, yes, but it was the stillness of a predator lying in wait. He instantly slid the massive sword from his back, the steel whispering as it cleared the scabbard. His voice, sharp and clear, cut through the oppressive quiet.
"Who's there?"
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a voice, deep and laced with an authority that seemed to physically press on the air, came from a side doorway.
"A very keen sense of observation."
A man stepped into the dim light of the hall. He was tall and imposing, dressed in an elegant, fluffy black top hat and a regal white doublet. A small, simple cross hung from his neck, but Roy's eyes were drawn to the colossal, cruciform blade strapped to his back. And then, to the man's eyes. They were sharp, piercing, and gold like those of a hawk, staring out from a face that was both stern and noble.
Roy's breath hitched. His mind reeled, not from the man's palpable power or his strange gaze, but from the sheer, impossible familiarity of him. He knew this man. He knew what those eyes represented. And in that single, heart-stopping moment, he finally knew exactly where he was.
"Dracule Mihawk," Roy breathed, the name leaving his lips in a stunned whisper.
The man, Hawkeye Mihawk, showed no surprise at being recognized. His fame was such that it was expected. Yet, a faint flicker of curiosity did cross his features as he took in the sight of the feral-looking youth in the forgotten castle.
"To find a human living on Kurai Kana Island," Mihawk mused, his voice echoing slightly in the vast hall. "You must be a castaway. A survivor."
Kurai Kana Island. The name clicked into place in Roy's mind, solving the final piece of the puzzle. The powerful, sword-wielding baboons… it all made sense. This was the world of One Piece. The confirmation was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
Roy met the warlord's piercing gaze, his own mind racing. He needed to be careful. He needed to be smart.
"No," Roy said, his voice steadying as he straightened his posture, the weight of his own sword a comforting anchor in a suddenly upended world. "I am no castaway. I am an aboriginal of this island. I was born and raised here." He shook his head slowly, his story already weaving itself into the fabric of this new, incredible reality.
##########
Shanks or Mihawk? Who takes it? For me Shanks.
Add it to your library dear readers.